


Hey Tomorrow

by grumkin_snark



Series: that one arthur/elia modern au [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 02:55:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10234238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: Okay, so, maybe Arthur isn't the worst person ever. Not that Rhaenys is going to tell him that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: It's shameless anon that asked you dinner au. I come back again. I see that Elia/Arthur(seven bless them) is your otp (MINE TOO!). So I get little bit encouraged if you could continue your modern au Arthur as soldier I would die happy. To be specific would you consider a fic where Arthur wakes up from a nightmare but doesn't disturb Elia and somehow Rhaenys wakes up and talks to him. Like helping him. Sorry if I'm being annoying. Your works are always lovely!
> 
> [For an anon on Tumblr.](https://samwpmarleau.tumblr.com/post/158296356369/its-shameless-anon-that-asked-you-dinner-au-i)
> 
>  
> 
> This is set about three years after the events of Same Auld Lang Syne.
> 
> NOTE: I have no personal experience with PTSD (or car accidents) except what I've perused on the internet, so probably most of this is totally contrived but if anyone reads this who knows better than I about this stuff and takes issue with how it's presented here, please let me know so I can fix it.

_“Hi, you’ve reached Judy Thompson. I can’t come to the phone right now—”_

“Ugh,” Rhaenys groans, jabbing at the End Call button. She’s tried literally _all_ of her friends and their parents, and not a single one of them has answered. They have almost the same voice messages, too, and she’s sick of hearing them. “‘If you ever need a ride, just call, and I’ll pick up.’ Yeah, _right_. Thanks for nothing, Mrs. Thompson.”

She can feel the after-school instructor’s eyes on her, and steadfastly pretends she can’t. Mrs. Gorf is no one’s idea of a competent or engaging teacher, about a hundred years old on top of that, and a stickler for rules. None of her friends’ parents are Rhaenys’s parent or guardian, but they’re also booster club members _and_ on the PTA; not even Mrs. Gorf would be able to refuse them.

Not that it _matters_ , because they’re not picking up the phone.

A final, terrible, no good, awful thought wrenches its way into her mind, and after wrestling with it, she comes to the unfortunate conclusion that it’s her only choice if she ever wants to get out of this place. Mother isn’t an option, Egg definitely isn’t, and Father’s much too far away. But if even _he_ doesn’t answer…

“You want a parent or guardian,” Rhaenys says to Mrs. Gorf, shuddering at the clicking of the woman’s dentures. “What about a…a stepparent?”

Mrs. Gorf stares at her some more, then replies, “Yes, that would be acceptable. Though I was not aware Mrs. Targaryen had remarried.”

“Martell,” Rhaenys corrects. “Mother’s never been a Targaryen.”

_And she’d skin you for saying so, you hobbit._

“Oh, she’s one of _those_ women. No wonder she’s divorced.” Mrs. Gorf curls her lip. “Exactly when did she remarry?”

“Um, it was super recent. She didn’t want to make a fuss or anything, so no one at school has heard about it.”

_Mostly because it’s totally false. Not that I’m going to tell_ you _that._

For a moment, she thinks her lie doesn’t stick, but then Mrs. Gorf waves her hand in what Rhaenys assumes is acquiescence. Rhaenys dials yet another number quickly, glad she hadn’t thrown away the sticky note Mother had written with his information on it. Before she can wonder whether Arthur will be as flaky as her friends’ parents, he answers.

“Rhae? What is it, are you okay? Egg, your mother, are they—”

“No, we’re fine,” she says, realizing that naturally he’d think someone was in mortal danger, because why else would she call if not for a life or death emergency?

After a long pause, he asks, “Oh. Then…what do you need?”

In a last ditch effort for freedom, Rhaenys peeks at Mrs. Gorf, whose eyes are narrowed in suspicion and decidedly _un_ sympathetic. Setting aside her pride, she presses on, “You have to come get me. I had that after-school project, none of my friends’ parents are picking up, and Mrs. Gorf won’t let me leave.”

“Gorf? Is that the one who looks like a troll?”

If he were anyone else, she’d have laughed; as it is, she doesn’t so much as chuckle. “Yeah, that one. So are you going to come or not?”

“Yeah, of course. Let me just—yeah, sit tight. I’ll be there soon.”

He hangs up before she does, and she tries to ignore the feeling of irritation that courses through her. Somewhere, she knows it’s not _totally_ rational to have so much distaste for him, not when he makes Mother smile and stays up all night helping Egg with science experiments, but the sensation persists. Three years and counting.

The minutes tick by like hours, Mrs. Gorf hovering over her and Rhaenys watching the pick-up area just as intently. At ten minutes on the dot, she finally sees Arthur’s truck pull into the lane, and she bounces her leg, itching to leave. The bell above the door jingles as Arthur enters, and Mrs. Gorf immediately begins sizing him up with those judgy, rheumy eyes.

“And you are…?”

“Arthur Dayne, Rhaenys’s…er…” Arthur trails off, not sure exactly what he is to her. Rhaenys can’t riddle it out either, but is more than willing to hang him out to dry. “Her mother and I are together.”

“‘Together’?” Mrs. Gorf pounces on the word like a hawk. “Miss Targaryen stated that you are her stepfather.”

He’s plainly taken aback at the news, so Rhaenys shoots every imploring, telepathic wave in the book at him. Followed by, _Don’t make this a thing. You’re my get-out-of-jail-free card, that’s it._

“More or less,” Arthur hedges, receiving her not-so-subtle signals. Apparently almost as anxious as she is to escape Mrs. Gorf’s company, he adds, “Sorry to make you stay late, ma’am. We’ll just be going now. Come on, Rhae.”

For once doing as he asks, Rhaenys snatches up her backpack and all but sprints out the door and into Arthur’s truck. It smells like he does, worn leather and pine, plus a hint of Mother’s perfume. Not altogether unpleasant, but for its owner. When he gets into the driver’s seat, the silence is instantly stifling, the awkwardness only increasing the further away they get.

Wanting— _needing_ —to mitigate the oppression, Rhaenys channels Nana Rhaella’s patience and mutters, “Thanks. For…whatever.”

He appraises her curiously, so she turns away and instead studies the road ahead more intently than strictly necessary. Not taking the hint, he answers, “Always.”

She’d retort, but retorting would mean talking to him, and she’s already done more of that than usual today, so she leaves his offer unacknowledged. The quiet continues on and on, until suddenly it doesn’t. They approach an intersection and as if in a movie, she watches as one car rushes through a red light and speeds straight into the one with the right of way.

Arthur screeches to a halt, Rhaenys exceedingly glad she’s wearing a seatbelt, for elsewise she’d surely be propelled straight into the windshield. There’s a horrible screeching sound as the cars ahead tangle up with one another, smoke issuing from the hoods, glass littering the pavement, pools of fluids spreading across the scene. Some loud bangs erupt from somewhere within the whole mess, and she doesn’t know much about cars, but she would guess that’s not a good sign.

Shaking her head to clear it, she quickly comes to her senses. “I’ll call 911,” she announces, pulling out her cell.

She goes through the motions, feeling weirdly disconnected from the whole thing as she speaks with the operator. Once she ends the call, it occurs to her that Arthur hasn’t said a word this whole time, and she looks over, bemused. His hands are clenched white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his posture rigid, his eyes glazed over as he stares at the destruction in front of them. He’s muttering something, she realizes now, mostly nonsense and a couple names, she thinks, but she can’t make any of them out.

“Uh, Arthur?” she prompts, more than a little weirded out at the reaction. The accident is bad, but not _that_ bad. There’s no fiery inferno, no one lying dead on the street, not even a police cruiser.

Just as she’s wondering if she should call the hospital and beg them to let her talk to Mother, Arthur jolts into action, which she’d think was a good thing were it not for the fact that his face is still blank, like he’s seeing but not _seeing_. He unbuckles his seatbelt and throws open the door, racing up to the car that was hit.

“What the _hell_?” she grumbles, hurrying after him. Okay, she’s not his biggest fan, like _at all_ , but she doesn’t want him to _die_ , and she’s pretty sure cars can explode. She keeps what she thinks is a safe distance, watching as he does his best to wrench his way into the cab, seemingly not caring about the oil and whatever else seeping into his jeans.

“Oz!” he yells in a panic. “Bull! Don’t worry, I’m gonna get you out of here, both of you, you’re gonna be fine!”  


The driver inside is just beginning to rouse, more than a little disoriented but so far as she can tell not horribly injured, all things considered.

“You’re okay,” continues Arthur, apparently not noticing what she does. “You’re okay, you’re fine, Sana’s fine, I radioed for help, the medivac is on its way, just hold on, _please_ …”

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Rhaenys finally realizes what’s happening. She’s never seen it personally, he and Mother had certainly never let on that this was an issue, but she’s heard Iris recount her dad’s episodes more than once. And suddenly, everything else slips into place, things she hadn’t really paid attention to before.

Why they never sit near windows in restaurants and why Arthur is always the one facing the door, why he never goes out with them on the Fourth of July, why of his past he only ever talks about college or hockey instead of the years that followed, why some mornings he and Mother look utterly exhausted, why every night he triple-checks the locks around the house even though they live in a stupidly boring neighborhood, why he’s always up just before sunrise.

Before, she’d just thought them weird habits, she hadn’t ever considered they might be something else.

And of course, _of course_ , this would happen in the middle of a random intersection miles from home when Mother’s unreachable. _Of course_ it wouldn’t be Egg here, Egg who actually likes Arthur, Egg who’s probably read several books about this.

She doesn’t know anything. Not about this, not about Arthur, not about the people he’s remembering, the _event_ he’s remembering, she doesn’t even know what he _did_ in the military. Mother hadn’t told her, and most definitely she hadn’t ever bothered asking.

Her savior as much as the drivers’, the ambulance arrives in all its blaring glory. They brush right past her, instead beelining one apiece to the cars, but they would have to be blind to not register Arthur, and upon preliminarily checking that the hit driver is stable, the nearby paramedic attempts to bring Arthur back to reality. It doesn’t work, so instead he whistles for a set of EMTs, and they grab him bodily in order to, she supposes, restrain him until further assistance can arrive.

It doesn’t work. For however much Rhaenys hates him, she’ll admit that he’s always been gregarious, so downright _gentle_ with Mother, that his physique had never really been intimidating. But now, his height, his mass, his agitation, it makes the EMTs’ jobs incredibly difficult. All the while, she hears him protest, more and more anguished by the minute. “Get off me, I can still—they’re _not_ , they can’t be, let me _go_ , I have to—”

The paramedic searches the back of the ambulance for something that she’d bet isn’t water. “You’re doing it wrong!” she shouts.

He whirls, catching sight of her. “Kiddo, you shouldn’t be here, it’s dangerous.”

“I’m not a ‘kiddo,’” she objects hotly, “and he needs _help_ , not a tranquilizer dart or whatever it is you grabbed.”

“Do you know him?” he asks. “Is that your dad?”

She shakes her head, because _no_ , she has a father and Arthur’s not him.

“You need to leave then, now.”

Part of her wants to, but the rest of her isn’t so cowardly. Plus, Mother would never forgive her, and Rhaenys isn’t sure she could handle a lifetime of her cold shoulder. “He’s not my dad, but I know him,” she blurts. “I _do_ , I know him. He’s my mom’s boyfriend.”

“Oh,” says the paramedic, now all business. “Well, I’ve called in backup, but we have to prioritize. That other driver is in critical condition, this one may have internal injuries, and we can’t do our jobs if we’ve got a case of PTSD to handle, too. Can you pull him out of it?”

_He needs you, Mother, not me. I can’t do this._ “I don’t know. I have no idea what I’d say.”

“Try. We have a sedative if required. Holler for one of the EMTs if you think he’ll hurt you.”

“He won’t hurt me.” The statement comes on reflex, and yet it’s not as surprising as she wishes it were. He and Mother have arguments all the time, loud ones but frivolous, but he’s never raised his voice at Rhaenys, not ever, no matter how much she probably deserved it. She doesn’t know this Arthur in front of her now, yet she’s confident in this one thing, and so she repeats, “He won’t.”

The paramedic is skeptical but has more pressing problems so allows her to scurry forth and kneel down beside Arthur. Stupidly, the only things that run through her mind are how much she’d always resented him, _loathed_ him, and how Iris said that sometimes not even her mother could break her father out of his flashbacks, both of which are only made worse by the fact that she can feel the two EMTs wanting her to hurry the hell up.

“Arthur, it’s me,” she tries, her voice cringingly small. “It’s Rhaenys. Remember? You picked me up from school, you called Mrs. Gorf ‘ma’am’ even though she’s a skeevy old hag and Uncle Lewyn says that when she was his teacher, he once saw her turn someone into an apple.” She’s rambling, she’s fully aware of that, she just can’t seem to _stop_. “Oh, I’m no good at this.”

She’s startled by a shout from the paramedic by the other car. “He’s coding! Leave the kid, I need you two here!”

There’s barely time to register the EMTs letting go of Arthur and giving her a few short, uninspired bits of encouragement before they’re running off, leaving her alone. Alone- _ish_. He’s not physically struggling so hard anymore, but it’s not much of a comfort.

She remembers what Iris also said, that sometimes it helped to remind her dad of who he is not who he was, so in desperation, she speaks the truth, even if it’s a truth she’s always balked at. “You love my mother, and she loves you. You love Egg and you…you love _me_ , and…” Unable to look at him, she instead looks somewhere in the vicinity of his knee. “And I know I’m the only reason you and Mother haven’t married yet. Because you want me to approve and you want me to like you, and I don’t.”

He hasn’t stopped saying those names, Oz and Bull and Sana, but, and it’s probably her imagination, she thinks maybe he’s not fighting quite as much. “But I…I don’t hate you. I don’t think. Not really. I mean, I kinda do, but…but maybe not forever.” For some lame reason, her vision goes blurry, and she blinks a few times to focus. Wanting to shunt aside the weakness, she forces herself to look at him again. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t know where to go from here, can’t think of _anything_ , and she wonders how she’ll explain to Mother that Arthur’s been put under sedation and it’s her fault. Except then she notices that his eyes are beginning to slowly slide back into focus, that he’s actually seeing _her_ , and eventually his body stills completely.

“Rhae?” She thinks it’s the first time she’s been grateful to hear him say her name. “Where are—but—what happened?”

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, abruptly self-conscious about all that she’d said. “You had a nightmare or something. Daymare, whatever.”

Arthur surveys the area, the crashed cars, the trapped drivers, the billowing smoke, the scent of burnt rubber in the air, and his face goes ashen. She sees the instant he realizes what his episode was, and digs the heels of his palms into his forehead. “Jesus _fuck_.” He must really be out of it, she reflects, if he swore in front of her. Mother gets livid if she says “crap”; Rhaenys would get grounded for a month if she even _thought_ the F-word. Absently, Arthur asks, “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t.” He lets out a breath, as relieved as if she told him he doesn’t have terminal cancer.

The surreality of the situation rescinds her admittedly flimsy impulse control, and she asks, “Who are Oz and Bull?”

Slowly, warily, Arthur lifts his head. “What?”

“Oz and Bull. And, um, Sana? You…you were trying to save them.” Arthur doesn’t say anything, so she does. “Iris said it’s good to talk about these things, you know, that it helps her dad.”

_Though_ , she grants, _Mr. Roark was discharged over a decade ago and I have no clue what Arthur’s job was._

So long is he quiet, she nearly jumps when he begins to talk. “Major Oswell Whent and Colonel Gerold Hightower. They…we were on a mission, we were guarding this little Iraqi girl who was helping us identify some members of the Taliban, and Oz and Bull were returning from what was supposed to be a routine supply run.”

He says it all with a detached sort of tone, like he’s speaking to a wall, and she prays he won’t relapse. “We had daily confirmation that it was safe, that there weren’t any insurgents or IEDs in range, it was _supposed to be_ —” He swallows. “They were in sight, Sana even ran out to greet them, when the Semtex went off. It was so close I got hit by some shrapnel, but I…they were in bad shape. I radioed base, but we were too far away for them to get to us in time. Oz and Bull were too damn honorable to even want me to get help for them, they just wanted to know if Sana was okay.”

“Was she?”

Arthur shakes his head. “She was near on top of the blast. She had no protection, hers was quick, but theirs…” Whatever he must have seen, whatever memories he carries with him, she wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not him, not even Mrs. Gorf. “Rhae, I’m sorry.”

Frowning at the change in subject, she asks, “Sorry? Why?”

“I never wanted you or Egg to witness… _this_ ,” he answers quietly. “I don’t deserve your pity.”

“You don’t deserve it?”

He massages his temples, eyes shut tight, though whether it’s for fighting off another flashback or something else, she can’t tell. “I did things I’m not proud of. Things I shouldn’t have done. I’ve hurt a lot of people, and I’ll…I’ll never be clean of that.”

“You haven’t hurt Mother,” she shrugs. “Or Egg.”

“I’ve hurt you. I know how miserable you are by me being in your life, but I’ve stayed anyway because it’s what I want, never mind what you want.”

She doesn’t think now is particularly the best time to get into her dislike. “What about guarding that girl? That was something you’re not proud of?”

He laughs, a brutal, discordant sound. “I did a pretty shitty job of protecting her. But it wasn’t that, it was later. They moved me to a different division and to stop thinking about that day, I turned everything off, good or bad. It was easier.”

Ever since Grandfather refused to say anything nice to or about her, Rhaenys has wanted to be treated like a grownup, to not be sheltered, to be told everything that’s going on. At the moment, she might want to revise that wish. “Does Mother know?”

“Most of it. For some reason, she still keeps me around. God only knows why.”

_I know why._ Herself, she’s having a difficult time letting go of even a speck of her resentment towards him, so built up as it is, but putting herself in Mother’s shoes isn’t that difficult. After ten years of Grandfather’s hatred and hubris, and Nana’s sadness, she guesses it must be nice for Mother to be around someone who’s so self-sacrificing. And she guesses it’s nice that he can fix things and reach the top shelf and show up at Egg’s plays and cook her favorite food with all the right spices and always be there for Mother no matter how sick she gets.

_And drop everything to pick me up from school in the middle of the day._

Yes, must be nice. For Mother. Obviously. Not her.

She’s not sure what else to say, but fortunately she’s saved by the arrival of the same paramedic who’d instructed her to help Arthur. “I’m glad you got this sorted out,” he says to her, surprised. He turns to Arthur then and asks, “How are you, sir?”

“Fine,” says Arthur, and he’s much harder to read than Father, but even she can hear the lie in his voice, see the strain on his face.

“Pleased to hear it,” says the paramedic. He holds out his hand. “And thank you for your service.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, and he can’t quite manage a smile, but shakes the paramedic’s hand anyway. “Just doing my civic duty.” Before the paramedic can say anything else, Arthur heads him off. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take Rhae home now.”

The paramedic becomes uncomfortable, and counters, “I can’t recommend that. Given the severity of your reaction, it wouldn’t be prudent for me to approve you to drive.”

Rhaenys is no fan of being told what to do, and though the paramedic is talking to Arthur, it affects her too. “He was a captain in the Marines, for _years_ ,” she snaps. “Yet you think it’s somehow beyond him to drive us a few miles home? Stick to putting Band-Aids on people. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Rhaenys.” It’s admonishment, sort of, but there’s the barest hint of amusement in it, too.

The paramedic, on the other hand, is plainly irritated by her outburst but is also apparently still intent on showing Arthur a modicum of due respect. “Even if I could sign off on his mental state, I wouldn’t be able to let you go with him anyway. Only a parent or guardian can escort a minor from the premises. ‘Mom’s boyfriend’ doesn’t fly with us.”

_Oh, come on. Not you guys too. Mrs. Gorf was bad enough._

“Her mother’s in the hospital,” Arthur points out. “I can’t reach her.”

“She’s got a dad, doesn’t she?”

The mention of Father is what sets her off, as though the paramedic knows anything about her family. She glances at Arthur, whose expression is somewhere between pain, irritation, and exasperation, then fixes the paramedic with a hateful glare.

“You said a parent or guardian,” she declares, grasping Arthur’s hand. “I’ve got one.”


End file.
